How Best to Be Forgiven
by coldbrew
Summary: S02 continuation. Sherlock had grown tired over three years and he did not look forward to the surge of publicity his unveiling was doomed to inspire. First and foremost, there was one particular man who needed to be told before all else. Mycroft had then proposed one question. "How are you so sure that you are to be welcome in his life any longer?"
1. How Best to Rehearse and Ignore

**A/N: Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Rating may change as the story goes on.**

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Going about unmasking oneself to the general public was not going to prove to be an easy chore for a man who seemed to be back from the other side, and that sort of phenomenon was bound to enliven the newspapers with unwelcome gossip for months to come.

Lurching up and into the sight of crowds of bored people, those who had been deranged enough to believe and those ignorant enough not to, had to be quite the show. A show, Mr. Holmes knew, that had to out-do the performance that was his apparent death.

Media would be abuzz with poor, far-fetched guesses and people who thought his acting was good enough that perhaps he had other-worldly connections that allowed him to cheat the reaper. Baffled, they would all be asking the same question. _How did he do it?_

Sherlock supposed the attention was somewhat nice, though laid on a bit too heavily for his tastes. He preferred the quiet admirers who gawked at his genius feats in person over the ones who sought to second-hand sow one good quote for the upcoming headlines of their magazines and television shows. He had grown tired over three years and did not look forward to this surge of publicity he was doomed to inspire, and regardless of all that, there was one particular man who needed to be told before all else. If his loyal doctor would somehow be made knowing from some newspaper headline, well, that just would not do.

He had preoccupied himself for three years, and that was all that there was to be said for that period of his life. He'd solved cases on newspaper reports alone, connecting the dots of headlines he'd caught glimpses of through the window of a café or on the street in the hands of some man. He itched for recognition, though time and safety took priority over his impulsive cravings to be known as the man to put another behind bars or shame some otherwise stranger's name.

Mycroft, the only one to know of his well-being throughout those three years, had rather generously opened the door to his office for all of Sherlock's nervous pacing and unruly back-and-fourth banter with himself. Unfortunately, he never did like to spend too much time in one place, much less inside Mycroft's stuffy office. He felt quite like a caged animal, walking and muttering about, sweeping his hand along the tacky curtains of the window to longingly stare at the world that awaited him.

"In hiding for three years, only to sit by the open window," Mycroft mused, watching his brother's distress while in the safety of his own comfort. "I understand that you are growing restless, though surely three years couldn't have made you that much dimmer."

"Hush," Sherlock flatly interrupted him, eyes briefly shut, brows knit close and tense. "I need to think. Mind palace. Busy yourself, pay me no more mind."

In front of a long mirror stood the world's one and only consulting detective, fleshy and pale but vibrant and very much still living. He was as tall, dark-haired and dashing as he was three years prior. He stared at himself a long while before he began to speak, still tugging at parts of his clothing to make them straight.

He must get this right, he must. Utmost importance, he thought. His mind palace made quick work of conjuring up a dapper-looking John in front of him.

Sherlock's nimble fingers toyed with his cuff links absentmindedly as he stared ahead, brazen eyes of hazel blue showing self-assurance that went against his idle fidgeting. "John," he started, and then that name hung in the silent air like a botched line by an actor. He began again, higher in pitch this time.

Mycroft stared unashamedly from behind, watching his reflection, too, as if it were the television.

"John," and he was more pleased with the sound, so he let the other words roll off his tongue too. "How you've changed, and by that I mean you're quite the same." He let his lips quirk up at the ends in a curt smile, small and poorly crafted, like some routine done so many times that it began to lack.

He let his lips drop once more, prompt and dissatisfied and with a sense of passive finality and displeasure. He was a playwright acting through a beautifully written scene that absolutely could not be acted upon.

No measure of talent could do the sincerity of such a frank sentiment justice, much less in the carefully chosen words of a genius of his unthinkable and rather unmatched caliber. No one could hold a candle to him. John only stared from within his mind palace, a weak freeze-frame with hard, wet eyes.

"I've not seen you this nervous in quite a while," Mycroft spoke behind him again and Sherlock didn't flinch at the deep, nostalgic sound of his voice.

Mr. Holmes only hummed in response, quite disinterested.

Mycroft pressed onwards. "Rather odd for you, is it not?"

"Odd," parroted Sherlock, his jaw tense as the word squeezed through his teeth.

"Yes," came the smooth response. "Feelings, in general, generally not your forté."

"I am odd, everything I am and do is odd. I'd imagine you knew this best, brother, and that there is nothing an odd man can do that should be deemed odd for his character." Sherlock tugged with two long fingers at his tie in an attempt to straighten it, hardly invested in their conversation.

"On the contrary," began Mycroft, his tongue sharp and tone leisure, buttery and precise. "I find that an odd man doing things utterly too ordinary is quite odd."

Utterly too ordinary, thinks Sherlock, as if he is some great machine and the inner-workings of his mind are that of some incredible, superhuman brain not to be harnessed or even understood by the mortal mind. Mycroft's words walked the thin line of insult and compliment. His lips were tight.

_Rubbish_.

Sherlock made a sudden bee-line for the violin case rested on the cushion of the chair in front of Mycroft's desk, opening it in a business-like fashion. He had apparently begun to pout, for he purposefully did not respond or bother to meet his brother's eyes.

Mycroft saw this. "Please, you know what I mean," he assured him with little worry, twisting the handle of his umbrella against his dense carpet in a fidget.

"I do. I know you're tense because you're worried I'll fluster or upset him. I can assure you that John can handle himself quite fine more often than not." His violin rested upon his shoulder, his chin resting expertly on its perch as he let the bow glide across the strings.

Mycroft's patience was briefly tested from this comment, and that was somewhat audible in his tone. "No, Sherlock." He said, delicately, as if being particularly mindful of how he sounded while purposefully allowing his words to bite. "I'm worried you'll do that to yourself."

Sherlock's music haulted.

For a moment or two, the brothers were silent, Mycroft awaiting a reply and Sherlock hardly feeling hurried to give one to him. He didn't quite know what to say, and he never was one for feeling at a loss for words. He was more choosy with his silence, hand-picking times he preferred to be seen as aloof rather than unknowledgeable.

"You're beginning to sound like _mother_." He said the word like some grand title, the music beginning once more and taking on an unfriendly pace, as if attempting to chase out his brother's incessant nagging. His pacing and the songs he chose always spoke volumes of his mood and thoughts, even as his face did not.

Mycroft's head gave a tilt, as if feeling he had received an undue compliment where an insult belonged. "Good, then I must be making sense."

Sherlock was mildly irritated with his brother's mannerisms. "Will you stop that? Honestly, flagging me down for a talking-to like I'm a child."

"If you would stop acting like one."

"I was under the impression that both of us fully understood that this day would come. Only now that it is here do you seem bothered by it." Sherlock's brows eased and knit with the softening and hardening rhythm of his violin, his brain more dedicated to another matter entirely. "Would I look completely ridiculous in glasses?"

A winded sigh left Mycroft's lips. "I usually figure you are too set in your ways to be swayed by the words of your dearest brother. I only thought I would be doing you a kindness now by speaking my mind before it is too late, lest you do something awful or ridiculous." He drawled the last words as if they were horrid notions.

_Awful? Ridiculous?_ No, he would not dream of doing or being such a thing during this last-minute rekindling between him and his doctor. He'd be pointed, quick-witted and oh-so-clever. He'd be just how John had remembered him. He'd fit his old friend's assumptions to a tall and proud "T."

"Sometime soon, is it? Or do you not know?" Inquired Mycroft, inspecting something underneath his nails nonchalantly.

"I'm unprepared. I'll need a disguise. Time." Sherlock bit the last word, ignoring the possibility of unveiling himself when the opportunity was not ripe enough to fall from the tree. "Until then, I'll stay out of the eye of the public. I'll know when the right moment presents itself." His arms dropped and along with them, the music stopped. Bustling with the aid his music had inspired, his thoughts had been flowing for long enough and now was time to begin on his plans.

Mycroft's lips pursed thoughtfully. "And if you're discovered before then?"

Sherlock looked at him as if he'd sprouted a third head. No direct response was given. "I need to tend to a few errands out and about. I won't be long." He popped open the clasps to his violin case, retrieving a cake of rosin and delicately, with a loving hand, pleasuring his bow's cord with its flank.

"Where on earth to? Have you anywhere more appropriate to go? Surely you cannot be safe elsewhere." Mycroft made a bitter face, mildly irritated and thoroughly placid in tone. "Sherlock, Sherlock. A dead man should not go strolling about town, it's rather rude to those with weak hearts."

"I could not tell _you_," Sherlock's comment was more of a jab than he may have intended or premeditated. He placed the rosin precisely where it had been.

Mycroft felt successfully singed and, in return, was hugely sarcastic in his response. "Ah, for I am on the quest for sabotage. As has always been my aspirations."

"No one can know. Knowledge is a powerful thing. I cannot take risks when my life is not the only one in danger." He nestled his violin comfortably in its case, smoothing his fingertips over its silky face before snapping it shut with a sharp noise of metal clasps.

"Such fierce responsibility gained in three years. Am I to assume shelter in the arms of the homeless has taught you more than my years of loving guidance?"

Sherlock's lips quirked up in a quick, uneven smile. "You'd be surprised at what they know. They're wondrous help."

"Not the most trustworthy," chided Mycroft with an air of assertiveness, pompous and ignorant like a teenage girl, though his brother was not easily offended, and his response was equally as pointed. "Liars are not heroes and fibs do not solve cases."

"I am quite serious. Something must be awfully wrong with your head if you deem it suitable to walk undisguised down the street."

"No option. Poor disguises are thoroughly suspicious. I'm nothing more than another false alarm, another inaccurate reported sighting."

"You are a _celebrity_," drawled Mycroft.

"Right, and as such, the spotlight will be long gone from me. People are fickle and I am no longer their active concern."

Sherlock only walked past him and to the door, violin's case in tow, though when his long fingers wrapped around the cold, brass handle, there was a sense of urgency in the tone of his brother's voice that came as a surprise. "Reconsider, if you would. He's been weathered by the years."

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock said, brows knit as he raised a dismissive, flippant hand to quiet the other, body half-turned to Mycroft to deliver the look personally.

"I won't," Mycroft detested as he straightened in his stale chair. "He's a man, not a book to be read. Tell me this, for this is one thing I do not understand," He began, speaking slowly and pursuing Sherlock at the door with only a few small steps toward him. "How are you so sure that you are to be welcome in his life any longer?"

Sherlock halted, his hand still steadied where he held the doorknob.

Hesitation was brief before the door handle twisted and the door was opened. He had no rebuttal to Mycroft's last jab, though he inwardly assured himself that he knew John much more than people tended to give him credit for. He saw no purpose in debating further when he was so utterly and beautifully right.

Sherlock was only dimly aware of the possibility of otherwise. "I won't be long, Mycroft," was all he said before he shut the door behind him.

_Child. Still such a child_. Mycroft leaned his umbrella by the door and strode around his desk, giving his cellphone a brief glance as it sat black-screened on the top of the table. He smoothed the coat tails of his jacket down his lower back as he took a seat. His lips were flat and tight against his teeth as he listed back in his chair, smoothing out the newspaper in front of him and raising his brows with vague intrigue at where their conversation had ended. Surely, this could not go as Sherlock had hoped and planned. Nonchalantly, he looked at the time on his cellphone and folded his hands atop his newspaper, counting in his mind.

Now was a solo waiting game. He didn't need to play for long.

His cellphone rang. John had called. "I need to talk to you," he said, and Mycroft invited him to come by whenever he wished to with suspicious fluency of rehearsed lines. Plans were arranged for a stop-by that evening, and Mycroft pretended to need to have to fit him in his calendar.

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**A/N: What a relief to finally be publishing this. If you'd like me to continue this story, which I'd be more than happy to do, please write me a review and tell me so. If there doesn't seem to be any significant interest, I will unfortunately not write for it any further. I've written the second chapter, for the most part.**

**I'll specify that this story could go anywhere from this point on, though I have a frame-work in my mind; the reader's opinions will be influential on the unfolding. As will be the case for all of my writing, any and all critique is welcome. I'd love to see how far this continuation of the series could go on for.**

**Much appreciated.**


	2. How Best to Deduce and Dismiss

**AN: Brief changes made to the previous chapter. My apologies for the minor alterations in storytelling, though please enjoy from here on out.**

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Flagging down a cabbie always seemed a bit harder when you had to have someplace to go fast and with great purpose. Perhaps that could be blamed on the appeal of a tight-dressed damsel waving one long arm as opposed to some shabbily-dressed adult man wiggling with impatience like a toddler with a full bladder.

He'd made his way to Mycroft's office twenty minutes later, briefly conversing with the unkind driver before giving him his money and striding up the steps with his cold hands awkwardly stuffed in the tight front pockets of his puffy, gray-green jacket. He looked to have much on his mind.

John had grown gray and weary in the past three years of stress, heartbreak, and more recent heartbreak once more. He felt old and tired in the eyes and his mouth was flat and wrinkled at the ends. He stood bluntly and plainly and rather without pride and he yanked the door to Mycroft's office open with a tight fist.

"Ah, there's our doctor," Mycroft said, somehow in a way that was equal parts delighted and apathetic.

He was looking rather pasty, noted Mycroft, a more sickly hue than the usual lack of proper sunlight. His youth in bright eyes and interest had diminished almost entirely to a dipping flame, the wax surrounding it threatening to hotly drip and slowly suffocate. Incredible, what three years could do.

He shut the door behind him, shedding his oddly thick coat and draping it over the back of the chair in front of Mycroft's desk. He plopped himself down ungracefully with a tired sigh, and only then did Mycroft acknowledge he'd walked in at all. He noted that the gray-haired man seemed out of breath.

"Hi," John said flatly as he took a seat, rubbing his fingertips against his palm as he looked up at Mycroft, breathing somewhat heavy through his nose from his brisk walk. He didn't ever feel quite comfortable under the eye of the other Mr. Holmes, how his eyes bore into him with less familiarity and warmth than Sherlock's had. Mycroft was cut from the same cold cloth as Sherlock, though the difference was that Mycroft never cared to allow John to be anything more than a stranger. At arm's length, he smiled and was courteous and sharp and his eyes glinted, though the way he toyed with him easily gave away he didn't truly give a damn.

"I thought we agreed on Tuesday," was all Mycroft said. He gave a glance to the mirror with cold, private amusement, not bothering to let on in the slightest that Sherlock had been in the very same stuffy, old office only an hour or so before.

Tuesdays, the first of each month, were Mycroft and John's strange dates for sipping tea in quiet for the sake of company of mutual grounds. John thought that maybe he wanted to keep some sort of long branch toward his late friend, and Mycroft was similar in some endearing fashion. Mycroft never seemed to grieve, either, which was somehow nice to have as company. He let it be as it was, and for that, John found himself oddly grateful somehow. His back may have just been sore from three years of gentle patting and unwanted solace, and perhaps that was why the elder Mr. Holmes' scratchy demeanor was easily swallowed by the doctor.

"Yes, Tuesday, I know," John said with haste, knowing he'd be questioned. "I had to talk sooner."

"Something's happened?" Mycroft inquired hollowly, his eyes falling back down to his newspaper.

John looked down at his own knees and thought, shifting in his seat like a great weight sat on his shoulders. "I suppose you could put it like that. Nothing's happened, really, though I have been doing some thinking. I guess I wanted to talk to someone about it."

Mycroft's calm hands folded neatly in his lap. "I wouldn't imagine this is about your wife, is it?"

John became rigid, his shoulders and hands stiffening and his eyes going hard and glassy. His wife had passed only four months prior, and he felt rage in his throat for Mycroft having the nerve to remind him of such a thing - and so insensitively, it had struck a nerve. He swallowed the anger down. "No," he said thinly.

Mycroft knew he'd been out of line. "I'm sorry," was all he said to mend that. "Go on."

John swallowed. He'd rehearsed how he might begin to say what he was thinking, and perhaps over-thinking that made the words even harder to say. He figured he'd be honest and see where that got him. He couldn't go on believing in silence any longer.

"I think," John began sharply, bravely. "I think Sherlock's all right. Living, somewhere."

Mycroft didn't pretend to be taken aback. He wasn't quite so theatrical, though more privately sarcastic. He demonstrated this as his eyes watched John carefully, as if contemplating the notion seriously for the very first time. His mouth opened slowly, very slowly, as if choosing his words with great care.

"I'm sure you do know how you sound," he said.

"Absolutely mad." John stated surely before the words had left Mycroft's mouth. "I know, I don't blame you for thinking that."

"I never did say I thought that," Mycroft said pointedly, definitely on his high horse. "More preposterous than mad, anyhow."

John was puzzled as to whether or not that was any better. "Preposterous, then," he said, unsure of how to respond.

"Anyone else, however, may not be as receiving to the declaration of a living Sherlock Holmes. I'd be wise in just who you share your suspicions with." His statement seemed nonchalant, though it was dire. Gently, Mycroft had sought to protect his baby brother's well-being.

John nodded, for he did know that quite well. "Which is why I rung you. You're quite well-adjusted to the preposterous, I'd assume, having had been living with such a..." He stopped, trying to find the right word that didn't include cussing. _Selfish dick. Shitting lunatic. Cocky bastard._

"Eccentric individual?" Mycroft keyed in, amused.

John barely smiled. "Yes. All of your childhood."

"Yes, and somehow it feels as though it has been much longer than that," Mycroft said smoothly, allowing the odd statement to pass by without as much as a questioning glance from the man across from him. "Now, you're sure these suspicions are not purely wishful thinking on your part?"

"No, it could very well be that. I'm only hoping otherwise."

"And you have some reasoning to back up these claims?"

"Some," repeated the younger man.

"How long have you been theorizing this?"

"None too seriously until Mary's passing."

Mycroft had assumed so. Perhaps the boredom and loneliness had begun to eat at him once more, filling his brain with all sorts of nonsense, true and mislead all at once. He was right, at the core, though Mycroft hardly thought he'd have any decent reasons to believe so. "Mind filling me in on some of your leads?"

John did not mind. In fact, he seemed more than willing, gesturing with more passion than any conversation they'd held on any old Tuesday. "My chair, the one I'm in right now," he began. "I see you here each Tuesday, and for the past few visits, there have been foot prints in dirt on the edge of the seat."

"Foot prints?" Mycroft questioned blandly.

"I know only one man who sits like that."

In a rather bothersome memory, Mycroft pictured Sherlock's childish habit of sitting with his knees up to his chest. He did not let on that this clumsy mistake was anything but a coincidence without an explanation."Why, could have been anyone," Mycroft said with a slow smile.

"Could have been anyone?" John sounded nearly offended by the suggestion.

"Indeed. I'll have you know you're not the first man to visit my office."

"Right, and do half of them sit like an overgrown child as well? No full-grown man sits like that. No one but _him_, in any case. I've taken spit and a rag to his arm chair dozens of times. Living with _that_ for as long as I did, of course I'd notice when I saw it popping up again elsewhere."

Mycroft stared, puzzled and intrigued by his passion, and John settled in his seat. He eased softly back into the stale cushion of the chair once he'd successfully bit back at Mycroft's rubbish comment, though the pace of their banter picked up again within the minute.

"A stretch, at best." Mycroft commented insincerely while inwardly rather pleasantly surprised with the other's quick notice of such a slight thing. Perhaps he had underestimated the doctor's fine-tuned ability to pick up on small things that reminded him of the man who'd changed his life so. "Nothing else?"

"Yes, there's more," John looked displeased that he was being rushed, wanting a bit to relish in his own drawn conclusions on the chance that they lead to some sort of big break. "The smell. In your office, right now. Piney, sort of sweet. Like molasses." John stared, expectant, wondering if he'd need to clarify.

Mycroft's nostrils moved to sniff at the air and John was somehow satisfied he'd piqued his curiosity enough to cause that. He hardly gave the other man enough time to make a proposal, and Mycroft seemed irritated, as if a riddle had been solved for him.

"Rosin," the doctor clarified with an air of self-satisfaction.

_Rosin._ Cakes of rosin, like the ones Sherlock used when he waltzed back and fourth round the office, rubbing it smoothly across the bow of his violin. He had just done so thirty minutes prior. Mycroft's mouth opened, he seemed to think, and then it shut briefly once more. John took this opportunity and went on.

"Your bowl of sugar has seemed rather short in supply in the past few visits, I saw. I've never once seen you take a single lump of sugar for your tea, and I take none, though I seem to remember Sherlock favoring it quite a lot." Mycroft's eyes flickered to the sugar jar briefly, self-consciously, and then squinted his eyes.

Sherlock always did make quick work of their sugar jar, and John was, once again, fine-tuned to notice the small and occasionally irritating things that no one else would. Many stops to the market only to restock on sugar helped trigger his memory of seeing the unusual once again.

"Perhaps I fancied a change," Mycroft said delicately, almost too delicately, as he leaned back in his seat to seem unperturbed.

"You're dieting," John smiled.

Mycroft was then silent for just a few seconds, though John's flat smile showed he was rather proud. Sherlock's brother's hands folding in his lap and the gentle sigh he gave told enough. John swelled with pride.

Slowly, he looked at the doctor. "If you think he's been here, why wouldn't you ask me directly, rather than make all these silly assumptions?"

John shrugged one shoulder, not upset. "If you hadn't had told me yet, why would you respond honestly then?"

Mycroft was growing exhausted.

"If he isn't dead, pray tell," Mycroft's fingers gently knitted together and he drawled his speech. "Why would you suspect he'd unmask himself today, of all possible days? Seems a rather unspectacular date for him to choose. No one likes Mondays, either, it's a horrid day to come back from the dead. Bad weather, too."

John was not up for humor. He was, for some reason, hesitant to answer the question. "I feel I'm being followed by someone. Stalked, somehow."

Mycroft made a skeptical, scornful sound in the back of his throat. "And you think he is the one doing the following? Very bold statement on your behalf. I can confidently assure you that if by some odd chance, he is well and following you, he'd be sure you did not take notice of him lest he wished that to be so."

"I don't think it's him. I don't know how, but it seems... unfriendly. Dangerous. People seemed to think the best way to get to him was..." John drifted off.

"Through you," finished Mycroft, and John nodded shortly. Mycroft watched him, head high, staring past his nose. "Then, where do you suppose he is now?"

Earnestly, John held a finger, and then turned to retrieve something from the pocket of the large coat he'd draped over the office chair he sat in. He picked a smooth, white envelope from the packet, slightly crinkled, and handed it unceremoniously to Mycroft. Gracefully and finicky, Mycroft took the letter between his two fingers.

Mycroft's brows raised, his fingertips teasing at the neatly-folded flap of the envelope. John's hands fell onto his lap like he didn't need to say the rest. Everything left to say was to be in the envelope nestled within Mycroft's hands.

Mycroft gave him a look from under his eyelashes, his mouth a impertinent line below his beak of a nose, and he slowly opened the envelope with the tips of his fingers. He brought the smooth paper from the inside, eyes sweeping across the cursive lettering inside.

_You are cordially invited to a dinner party_  
_in memorial of Sherlock Holmes  
on the third anniversary of his death._

_221B Baker Street, 8:30PM  
Hosted by John Watson_

When Mycroft's eyes traveled upwards once more, John was watching him with hard eyes, growing eager for some sort of response. Mycroft blew a soft breath from his nostrils and put the envelope down. "Just what am I to make of this spontaneous invitation, John?"

"Look, all of your questions and mine will be answered in time. Just say you'll attend."

Mycroft's eyes glinted as if he understood. "So, the trap has been sprung. Surely he couldn't resist using this to his advantage for quite the surprise."

"Yes," John said, plainly, not too pridefully nor self-consciously. "If he is alive to hear of it, he will be there." Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps he was not.

In the silence that followed, John grew a bit nervous. He wasn't sure what sort of thoughts were going through Mycroft's brain, one that threatened to match even his brother's, though that deliberately chose to stay basking leisurely in the warmth of his head, glowing, asleep.

Mycroft's legs crossed with lazy poise underneath the top of his desk. "Deductions never have been your métier, though this has been _richly_ entertaining," he said slyly, liking to see the doctor squirm in his seat. "If you're right, this would be quite impressive. He'd be proud."

_He'd be proud._ That hurt. John was momentarily paralyzed. "So, you'll make it then?"

Slowly, Mycroft smiled at him. "My dearest doctor. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

John said a hurried and discourteous goodbye and only when he shut the door did he notice how tense his shoulders had become. When he stepped down the office porch and onto the sidewalk among the other pedestrians, a great weight as lifted on his shoulders and replaced with an even larger one.

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**AN: Thank you for your support, and as always, feel free to leave a comment or critique.**


	3. How Best to Deny and Accept

Like a moth drawn to a flame, Sherlock had dully dedicated himself to John's plan. Brutish and headstrong in mind and well-aware of his own genius, he cared not of timing and the mysteriousness of perfection. He saw only one gorgeous chance of glorious and long-awaited divulgence. He longed to raise the curtain on his trick.

Mycroft had a start when the door to his office was yanked open and by the time his eyes happened upon Sherlock in his doorway, he was shedding his coat and saying something fast and thrilled and erratic. Mycroft recognized this as post-breakthrough Sherlock, and he felt tired at the thought, beginning to rub his temples.

"Brilliant," Sherlock spat as he paced about the small room, his long legs carrying him about with a stern sense of newly achieved purpose. He was excited to the point of happy frustration, making empty exclamations and thoroughly irritating his brother in the process. "Brilliant!"

"I do wish you wouldn't," Mycroft softly uttered as he watched his brother waltz around the office. For emphasis, Sherlock's hands made a fist and promptly eased. "Beautiful, ah _yes_. Bloody marvelous. Mycroft, do you not _see_ how ripe this opportunity is?" He was angrily though positively writhing in his own anticipation.

Mycroft watched him flatly, uninterested, and Sherlock scoffed. "Figures."

Mycroft, however, continued to be only marginally curious of Sherlock's shouting and was still entirely patient in his response. "I try and let you run your course when enthusiasm grips you so wildly. You're rather unmanageable when you're in a tizzy," he said.

"I knew that the right time would present itself to me. Oh, I knew." Sherlock stood in front of the mirror and grinned at himself, as if praising his own reflection with his eyes, and pocketed his hands smugly. "It's here and I am as prepared as need be. More than that."

"John's party?" Mycroft pretended to guess, inwardly aware though playing the part of the dumb and inquisitive one. He had become quite skilled at that, seeing as he had been acting as if he knew nothing toward both the consulting detective and the doctor.

"Party, not really the right word," Sherlock murmured. He wasn't too thrilled over the concept of a party on the third anniversary of his apparent death.

"Depends on who you ask." Mycroft was briefly entertained by his own wit.

"Quiet. Memorial service, we'll say. John will be in for quite a surprise."

Mycroft's expression told nothing of his thoughts. He was, however, surely unimpressed that Sherlock seemed to have promptly planted his teeth into the bait that John had set. Irritated with the other's naiveté, like feeling the itch to shout common-sense at the protagonist of a horror film, Mycroft sought better for him.

"As ludicrous as it must seem for me to imply such a thing, does none of this strike you as the slightest bit suspicious?" Mycroft received a daft look from Sherlock, so he elaborated. "The timing. How perfect this opportunity truly is. You've apparently somehow had an unwitting surprise party thrown for you."

A thick brow raised in skeptical curiosity, Sherlock turned fully to face his brother in disbelief. "You think John is the least onto me?"

"I said nothing of what I think. I was asking about you."

For once, Sherlock considered what his brother said, though not for any significant length of time. "Why would you suppose that?"

"To begin, I would find it significant to note that he's not had a public memorial service for you on any anniversary thus far."

Sherlock's brows knit when he heard this. His upper body twisted to look at Mycroft and he quickly said, "Why not?"

Satisfied with this very prickly reaction, Mycroft smiled, the equivalent of a mocking shrug. "Why, beats me."

Sherlock's arms dropped, shoulders lax. He looked childishly anxious. "He wouldn't know." He paused. "He couldn't."

"He could," corrected Mycroft.

"No one could," snapped Sherlock. "Much less _John,_" the same was uttered bitterly.

Mycroft hummed in a ditzy manner as if endeared. "You speak of him so kindly."

Sherlock did not respond and it seemed as though he were considering something large. Mycroft's head tilted like a pigeon's, mild and inquisitive, though watching from a safe distance of irrelevance. He did so enjoy the drama, and toying with them both as a masked tool was entertaining. "Sherlock? What is it you're planning?"

Sherlock's hands clasped together at the palms as he thought, index fingers against his lower lip. "Change of plans," he announced merrily, turning on the heel of his boot to give Mycroft a prompt smile. "You intend on attending this memorial service of mine, don't you? Perfect. I've a small favor to ask of you."

* * *

Sunday came.

John politely weeded through the sparse crowd of people who he'd invited, standing on the tips of his toes to survey all who had arrived. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, Mycroft, and Anderson were among notable people present. He'd also thought it to be appropriate to invite people they'd assisted on cases. Possibly only present for free food and wine, those most unfamiliar with the consulting detective all flocked to the tables of sparse hors d'oeuvres and looked judgmentally about.

Sherlock's waiter friend Angelo had invited himself as well and he was talking loudly and sadly to a very uncomfortable Anderson, undoubtedly reminiscing of his old friend and savior while the other tried to remember why he'd shown up at all. Anderson had become as odd and fidgety as his facial hair had grown long.

Sarah had explained she'd fallen ill with the flu, thus unable to attend, though John was near positive she didn't feel comfortable attending a memorial service for a man she wasn't initially too fond of whilst living. For this, John could not blame her, for the opposite action seemed somehow inconsiderate and detached, and it seemed somehow of superior morality to maintain honest and respect Sherlock's passing in a way suitable for their lack of a relationship.

Molly Hooper, quite alone and that making her very shy, flagged John down with a dainty hand, fingernails scarlet. Her hair was loose and her dress was silky and looked inexpensive. "John," she started gently, though attempting to be firm to communicate sincerity. Her voice was mousy and small and very familiar.

John was genuinely happy to see her. He need not pretend to be, as he did with some near-strangers present. "Molly, hello. You're here, that's great."

She smiled so that the apples of her cheeks showed. "Oh, I couldn't ever miss it. I just wanted to tell you that I..." Her sentence abruptly halted and her hands folded in one another gently as she looked up at him. "...This is a beautiful thing you're doing. This party. It's lovely." Her arm extended as she put a squeezing hand on John's upper shoulder, a gesture that wasn't in the least self-conscious, and he accepted it graciously with a warm smile. "He'd be happy," Molly earnestly finished.

Molly was entirely pleasant. John had grown somewhat closer to her in the recent years, the both of them occasionally sharing quiet dinners full of cheeky smiles and quiet laughter. Neither of them seemed to feel romantically inclined to one another, though they appreciated the humble and alike company. He was thankful for the comfort she gave. He often wished Sherlock would have been more of a decent man in her presence, as she was deserving of such treatment.

Miss Hooper, however, had a habit of fidgeting and struggling with eye-contact with John. He took notice of this being an issue only with himself, though he didn't spend much time considering why that was the case. He was far too preoccupied with other issues to dwell on something as harmless as that.

"Thank you," he said, leaning in to give her cheek a chaste kiss. "You look beautiful. Please, help yourself to a drink, or perhaps..." He looked over the top of everyone's heads to see Anderson, irritated, looking up at the ceiling as Angelo began to sob heavily. "Perhaps help Anderson over there. Seems he needs it."

After assigning Molly a social role in the gathering he was free to continue onward through the flat. He caught the eye of Mycroft, who raised a glass of champagne where he stood. Lestrade looked John's way and didn't smile, and John was quite sure Mycroft must have been uttering disreputable remarks in his ear.

Unfortunately, the clock was not forgiving, and two hours passed with no sign of Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft grew increasingly smug as John grew tipsy with a few too many polite glasses of wine to partake in the social drinking aspect.

John was somewhere between hopeful and convinced, knowing both that Sherlock would be there within the next minute and also that the former notion was an impossible one. His doubt pooled at the surface of his mind like oil in water, squeamish of the depths below that were brave enough to continue on suggesting something bizarre and wonderful and hopeful. He was overwhelmed by the vague chance that an oncoming climax was rising, hidden and glowing behind the jagged peak of a grand mountain.

John made himself another drink to make watching the door a bit less unnerving. He allowed himself another two or three, give or take one, by the time people began to leave. John protested, and that is where the party took a new turn. He knocked over a lamp in his haste to stop people at the door, granting him full attention.

"No," he said, softly, sadly. "Don't you all understand? He'll be here."

Molly's brows knit, not understanding but wanting to. "Who's here?"

"Sherlock," he slurred.

John silenced the room with one word. Guests exchanged shocked glances in disbelief. Mycroft's fingertips gently touched his own forehead, his head bowed, silently hoping John would silence himself before he made a horrible scene of this insane proclamation. He'd surely make a fool of himself if he went on. "God," Lestrade said with blunt frustration, hands on his hips as he braced himself, as he knew each and every person there shared the mind that John had spontaneously gone mad.

Mrs. Hudson stood before him, frail, and felt his cheek with the back of her hand. "Hun, are you feeling all right?"

"Now, John, that isn't at all funny," Molly said, her voice heavy with disappointment. "You're frightening people."

John seemed not to see either of them at all, and he enthusiastically tailed his guests as they filtered one-by-one down the steps. "He is alive! Have none of you caught on yet? Please, wait. He'll be here." As John went on, more people began to make their way through the door. "Don't. Don't leave now."

"John," Mycroft said firmly while still irritatingly passive. "Please, for the sake of your guests and yourself."

John pointed at Mycroft, eyes squinting, voice low. "You are lying." He accused privately, only muttering.

"It is _over_," Mycroft spoke clearly and his brazen, blue eyes stared on with bored assertion. "Go home."

"I will not leave this flat until he's made his arrival. He just wants to make a scene. He's waiting for it."

"You've been drinking, that's what this is about. Lord. What were you thinking? Lestrade, escort him."

Violently, John's arm jerked away from Lestrade's tender reach. "Stop! I'm _not_ drunk! Tell the truth, Mycroft. Tell them!"

Mycroft was quiet when he responded, brow low. His posture was bold and he sounded bored. All eyes were on him and the moment balanced on his shoulders, depending solely on a response which he did not rush himself into giving. He delivered it in a drawl. "Tell them what, John?"

John scoffed, eyes up at the ceiling in frustrated disbelief. "He is alive, isn't he?" John glowered at Mycroft in a hostile fashion and the other man had absolutely no visible response to it. "Isn't he? Sherlock! Sherlock, I know you're here somewhere, just hiding and waiting. Here is the moment you wanted! Come out!"

Seconds passed. Sherlock was nowhere to be found. His chance faded back into the dark, promptly and soundlessly, leaving behind it only cold and lonely air and the dawning realization that nothing had ever occupied that damp, lonely space at all. Molly began to cry and John looked at her, filled with sudden shame.

"Pull yourself together," Mycroft said, brisker this time, angrier as Molly fled to a corner, softly weeping. "You are hysterical. Do you not hear yourself?"

John looked about the room. He was embarrassed and revolted at the disturbance he'd caused in a fleeting moment of sober understanding.

"Is there no way you will embrace what has happened and truly move on? Sherlock was buried three years ago and all of us here saw it happen. He is _gone_."

John breathed heavily, staring around at the guests who stared back at him with eyes of both sympathy and fear, akin to a sort of affronted pity, like stumbling upon a scene of roadkill still straggling about on the concrete. Molly couldn't look at him and John took notice that all present guests had taken a few tentative steps backwards.

"I'm sorry," was all the winded man could think to say for his frighteningly dramatic outburst, and he turned and ran down the stairs, feet heavy and lacking coordination.

"Dear, oh," Mrs. Hudson called after him with a tiny hand following, but he did not stop. Molly flocked to Mrs. Hudson as she began to look ill with surprise and concern. Slyly, inexplicably, and under the watchful eye of no one, Mycroft allowed himself a private smile.

John nearly tripped on the final step and ran stupidly into the street, raising an arm for a cab, climbing in the first that stopped for him. Exhausted and harboring drunken judgement, he found it suitable to simply run from the terrible scene he'd caused for the time being. He may not have fully grasped that such a fast departure nearly worsened the episode.

"Thank you," he said hastily to the driver for stopping. He couldn't have blamed the man if he had made the decision not to, as he must have looked rather insane in the middle of the road, disheveled and distressed. He rested his head back against the back seat and gripped his head with his hand as he gave his address in a jumble of fast words. He was eager to stop talking and give himself a minute or so to regain his sanity, restored in the quiet, dirty back seat of the taxi cab.

Oddly, that did not seem to interest the driver who took an immediate sharp turn in the wrong direction. John bumped against the wall of the cab, hands reflexively softening the abrupt collision. Perturbed, he looked to the driver's seat. "Sir, hello? Ah, wrong way. Did you not hear my directions?"

No response. John was angered by this, impatient and tired. "Hello, where are we going? Are you going to keep to ignoring me?"

He was. John, his head swimming with confusion and adrenaline newly inspired by fear, watched out the window as the cab passed quickly by the clueless night life. He was growing mildly frightened as seconds began to tick by, unsure of how hostile this driver's intentions were, though he caught a glimpse of the man's brow looking to the back seat with mild remorse and felt a smidgen safer than he would have otherwise. Jumping from the moving vehicle was much less appealing, so his options diminished to one.

John went limp in the back seat, feeling faint and dizzy, the wine taking much of the fight out of him. Depressed from drinking and embarrassment, he didn't care much for what was in the future for him, and could not bring himself to be curious of where this man intended on taking him either.

Outside the fogged, water-stained windows of the cab, blue and red and other nocturnal colors were whirring by, reminding him the world was continuing whether he was going to be part of it or not. He felt sadly safe in knowing he would be of no use to anyone who intended on using him for information on a certain consulting detective.

* * *

**A/N: As always, comments and critique are very much appreciated. Next chapter will thoroughly explain all. ****Until next time.**


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